


The Life You Knew Before

by helloitskrisha



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Reincarnation, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:14:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23822140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helloitskrisha/pseuds/helloitskrisha
Summary: Leave all thoughts of the life you knew beforeLet your soul take you where you long to beOnly then can you belong to me
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 15
Kudos: 83





	The Life You Knew Before

I had never been remarkable. Neither ugly nor beautiful. Just plain old Christine.

Wild, curly blond hair. Blue eyes. Thin, petite frame. Round spectacles. I never stood out in a crowd, always lost among a sea of faces. The kind of girl you passed by on the street and never glanced at again.

Papa always told me that I was special and, as a child, I believed him. He said that my voice was unique, ethereal, magnificent, the kind that made the angels weep. The part of me that believed his words perished as soon as I watched them lay his lifeless body into the ground.

Every day of my life, I prayed for an Angel, the one my father promised would save me. It has been years since I last believed in fairytales.

I should count myself blessed because, uneventful though my life may be, I’ve always been well cared for. Mamma Valerius took me in and gave me a home after papa passed away. I’ve had a good education, a handful of friends, and there was always food on the table and a roof over my head. I have a job that I am passionate about, working as a music teacher for children.

What more could I ask for?

Still, I can’t help but feel as though _something_ is missing. Like a phantom limb, the feeling of lack, of _loss_ never goes away. It’s like an ache that I can never quite place, not physical pain but something buried deep within. 

I knew that I was missing my soul’s other half.

Mamma told me that what I was experiencing was grief, that I mourned my papa and everything he represented in my life—my music, my childhood, my innocence. 

But I knew this was different. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t feel the ache. It had been there even when I was only a girl, though I did not have the words to express myself then. 

I remember how I would sing to my Angel, to the other half of my soul. With my music, I would always ask him—somehow, I knew it was a _him_ —who he was or how he was doing. Silence would always be my only companion, but I knew, I _hoped_ that my messages would reach him, wherever he may be.

Was it possible to lose something you never remember possessing? I can feel it, and it is as true as anything else in my life. 

As I got older, I simply grew used to the sensation, to the _lack_. It became a secret part of me, always there in the back of my mind but never in my everyday reality.

I tried to love other people. I dated boys. I dated girls.

None of my relationships ever lasted. Raoul said that my head was always in the clouds, that it felt as though he were competing with someone that didn’t really exist. Meg called me terrifyingly intense, that I took everything too seriously.

Neither of them seemed right. Nothing _felt right_. It was as though the universe was keeping me from giving myself wholly to someone, no matter how much I wished I could.

.

At night, I always have dreams.

Vivid dreams that feel so real that I often wonder whether I was supposed to be born in a different time, a different life.

I dream of music. Always music. But sometimes, the songs are accompanied by images and feelings. Elation and fear and anxiety and desire.

I dream of the stage, of being fitted for the most elaborate costumes, rehearsing songs and practicing movements. For a moment, I feel at ease, as though I were meant to be this incredible star. A spotlight shines on me and I bask in the applause of an enthusiastic audience.

But then the scene shifts and my heart starts beating a million times per second.

I dream of golden eyes gazing at me coldly, a tall, dark figure hiding behind a statue of Apollo. A chandelier shatters onto the once-elegant stage, pieces of glass flying everywhere as the crowd screams and flees. 

I dream of barrels of gunpowder and a closed torture chamber. Visions of a fire or a flood. Two figurines stand before me. A scorpion and a grasshopper.

I see a face. A horrible, terrible frightening face. Like a corpse that had come to life. I feel the urge to scream, but my voice dies in my throat as I look into his eyes. I could not hate that monstrous face. I could not hate those eyes, not when they held all the sadness of the world.

And I dream of a body, cold and lifeless, only a golden ring to remember him by.

After such dreams, I always wake up with tears in my eyes. Was it sadness for an exciting, eventful life I didn’t live? Fear for the ghosts that haunted my dreams? I could never tell.

But this is not the worst.

The worst are the dreams of a house by a lake and the mirror I pass through to make it there. Of long, spidery fingers coaxing transcendent symphonies out of an organ. Of a masked man who looks at me as though I were his whole world. 

A broken soul gazes up at me, clutching at the hem of my dress, and my tears mingle with his.

These are supposed to be good dreams, the ones with no violence or fear or falling chandeliers. Yet, they haunt me. I keep replaying the images in my mind over and over even in the day.

The worst is that I think that I loved him, but he never knew and never would’ve believed me even if I told him.

I’ve lost the other half of my soul. No matter what others tell me, I know it to be true. I only wish I knew how to get it back.

.

Another uneventful day passes by, and I daydream as I walk home from work. The stars shine above me, and I’m grateful for the way they seem to illuminate my path.

I walk down the streets of Paris, passing by shops and houses and buildings I see all the time.

But something _new_ catches my eye. Feelings both strange and familiar grip my heart. Before I could even think of what to do, my feet moved for me. 

He was there, playing a guitar. Tall and lean, elegant and graceful. He looked different from the way I remembered him. His skin was no longer as pale and his form wasn’t as skeletal, but I knew that it was _him_.

I froze as I stood before him, and his eyes met my own.

Slowly, we move toward each other, like the moon pulling the tides. I can see people walking past us, but it still felt as though time had stopped.

A word—a name—suddenly forms in my mind, and it slips out of me with ease. Like a prayer once memorized but long ago forgotten.

“Erik,” I whispered, “I found you.”

He smiles, and I knew I was home.


End file.
